Not Now
by that lionhearted vagabond
Summary: They'd, have to have a long conversation later, but not now. She held him tighter, not now.


**A/N Hey, so I have almost finished writing the fourth chapter for**** A Legend**** but the last couple times I've sat down to write I keep thinking of one shots that I absolutely must write, so, sorry. **

**Disclaimer- I own nothing, absolutely nada.**

She was crying. Tears swarmed her vision, causing her to stumble, her limbs heavy, dangling limply at her sides, she was sure at least one of her arms were broken, not that it mattered. There were others hurt much more seriously than her; she'd wait until morning to get checked out by Madame Pomfrey.

Her heart was breaking for the umpteenth time this last year and she was sure she was going to faint from exhaustion or grief at any moment. She was so tired, she just wanted to sleep, close her heavy eyelids and lay down on a bed, actually she didn't even require a bed at this point, just somewhere quiet. Not likely to find considering the present situation.

None of this mattered though, she didn't faint, she didn't fall asleep on her feet, and she didn't die from heartbreak either, although she was sure she would. It didn't matter though, because she's seen him.

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart did that annoying flip-flop thing again, then it started hammering in her throat. A brand new set of tears made their way down her already glistening cheeks, her theory that she'd run out of tears to cry proven incorrect, yet again. The little droplets shone with an abstract kind of beauty that didn't belong in this sea of pain and despair.

He stood stiffly in pain, but not willing to show it, but she knew. Of course she knew, she knew him better then she knew herself, much better. His hair was matted with dirt and blood, some of it his, some of it not. His once clean robes were torn and gashed, filthy beyond belief, from months on the run and faking his own death. A short layer of stubble dotted his face and he looked dead on his feet, and she didn't care. Not in the slightest, she didn't care that this seventeen year old was The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, The Chosen One, The Golden Boy. She didn't care that the boy, no man, for he was most definitely a man now, so much older than the last she'd seen him, was the subject of toasts and cheers and prayers and screams of gratitude at the moment, the savior of the wizarding world. She didn't even care that he'd just vanquished the single most evil being since the dawn of time.

All that mattered to her was that this was Harry, the boy she'd been helplessly, head over heels in love with since her four year old mind had first heard the bed time story about him. He was Harry, her Harry, with eyes as green as a pickled toad and hair as black as a blackboard. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

When she'd envisioned this scene before, for she had envisioned it countless times before, when she was alone, hurt or upset, and particularly angry with him, she'd always imagined that it would include her screaming at him, telling him what an insufferable prat he was, her hitting him until she fell down from exhaustion (which wouldn't take too long at the moment), her . . . well it didn't really matter anyway because that's not what happened, not at all.

As much as she would have liked to say she had walked calmly up to him and slapped him, or stormed at him screaming and ranting, she didn't. Instead she ran into his comforting, familiar and oh so sorely missed embrace. She would have liked to have said she'd stared at him coldly, and full of defiance, but she didn't. Instead she sobbed into his robe. No matter how hard she wished she had walked away, leaving him feeling guilty and empty, and alone, much like she had for the last nine months, she didn't. Instead she became the second crying girl he had ever snogged.

As her lips met his she forgot the long, scathing, demoralizing, guilt causing, anger fueled speech she'd planned to spit out at him. As she wound her arms around his neck, carefully ignoring the warm, red, stick substance on it, and now on her arms, she forgot that she was supposed to be furious with him. She sighed, ever so slightly as she felt her anger deflate, melting into him.

As she had ignored the blood and dirt that covered him, she ignored the screams of agony and grief, intermingled with shouts of victory and freedom. She ignored the realization that she was kissing the noble git that had dumped her to go chase after the ultimate villain. She ignored, just for the time being, that her brother lay cold, unmoving, and undeniably dead on the cracked, pitted and scorched floors of the once Great Hall. As did one of her best friends, almost a sister, with her bubblegum pink hair, not yet twenty-four. She lay next to her husband, one of the best official Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers Ginny had ever had the pleasure of learning from. The little brother she'd never had lay on the other side of the hall, Collin; they'd been united by their obsession with Harry. So many others lay with them, to many to even want to count.

She'd grieve for them later, long and hard, so agonizingly hard, but for now, for these few precious moments before the Wizarding World's hero was swept back into the handshakes and thank yous of his ever adoring, and grateful followers. For right now, in her own little bubble, Ginny felt some of the pain, and a little bit of the heart ache she felt slip away, just for right now. They would have to have a long conversation later, but not now. She held him tighter, not now.


End file.
